Tristan had been in Umbra for three weeks and he was beginning to miss the comforts of his old life. What he would give for a bed that he didn't have to share with cockroaches or a steaming mug of coffee to start the day. But from all that Tristan had seen in Umbra a clean bed and a mug of coffee seemed rarer than dragons and zombies. He settled into the hard bed at the Inn and closed his eyes hoping that he would fall asleep. Despite the stench or perhaps because of it Tristan managed to doze off. Unfortunately his dreams proved once again to be troubled ones. In great part because they did not even seem his own. Again he lived as Malice, this time the dream's felt like memories. He saw and felt Malice taking relish in the dreadful acts the dragon performed. He saw the dragon’s army of undead massacring a settlement in a desert land. He watched as a group of blue eyed magi weaved spells that toppled city walls and blue flames washed over the pleading citizens.

A bell sounded stirring a grateful Tristan from his sleep.

***

Breakfast arrived and Tristan stared down at the platter of bread, cheese, nuts, raisins, and a burnt pork chop leftover from the night before. He asked for a warm drink and instead of coffee the barmaid brought him a warm mug of spiced aromatic wine.

He wrapped the pork chop in a cloth and put it in his bag for later. He ate the rest of the meal in silence and when he was done he left the Rusty Flagon and stepped out into the streets of Seacliff.

In the morning light the town Tristan saw that the town was far larger than he had first thought. It had a harbor. A row of merchants houses a crafters alley and even a couple of dingy back alleys with the mandatory shady characters lurking in the shadows.

Tristan had a few tasks he needed to complete before he took the Northern road to Tempest academy. His first task took him down Fargals Lane. The barmaid told Tristan that the lane was named after old man Fargal who was a local legend in the Cheapside of Seacliff. Fargal was a happy drunk whose frozen body had been found under a pile of boxes in the lane that later was named after him.

Tristan whistled as he strode down the cobblestoned lane heading towards the crafters alley. He rounded a corner and mid step dodged a yellow puddle. His foot landed awkwardly, almost tripping him. He recovered quickly and looked around making sure nobody had seen him.

“Tis a morning so good, ya can't help but dance, milord,” said a homeless man who squatted in the shadow of the alley. He flashed Tristan a toothless grin. “Sing ya a song to dance to as good as any if ya spare a poor soul a copper penny.”

Tristan flicked a copper coin at the man. The beggar snatched it out of the air and the coin vanished into the pocket of his dirty pair of trousers.

“Thank you, milord.”

Tristan had seen so many homeless people in his life but this was the first time he’d ever spoken to one. Maybe it was because he felt homesick, or maybe he missed his friends, whatever it was Tristan needed to talk.

“I'm not a noble,” said Tristan, as he squatted down beside the man. “I'm just a person like you. I don't have a home. All I have is what you see. For all I know I could be on the streets begging in a week's time.”

“Oh no, milord, not you,” said the beggar.

Tristan smiled weakly. “What's the worst part of being a beggar?” he asked.

The beggar scratched the rash on his neck.

“The worst part, milord, is not when people refuse to give me money. The worst part is when they walk by as if I don’t exist. Don’t make eye contact, don’t say hello.”

The man rubbed his hands together. “That makes me feel less than human.”

“I'm sorry about that,” said Tristan. “Instead of a song. I would like to pay you for some information.”

The beggar tilted his head in a quick bow then ran a dirty hand through his greasy hair.

Tristan had a lot of questions but one question in particular had been bothering him. The question he had would be common knowledge in Umbra and asking the question would make Tristan look strange. If there was one thing Tristan had learnt from his life on earth it was that people didn't like anything strange.

Tristan found a dry spot and sat down then asked his question.

“What do you know about London?”

The beggar's eyes widened. “That's a place best left forgotten,” said the man.

“Maybe,” said Tristan. “But tell me in anycase.”

The beggar scratched his rash again. “The first thing you got to know about London is that it was a wonder, built by the hero’s own hands a century ago. No man went hungry, no child froze in the hard winter's and no army was mighty enough to threaten it. I’ve heard tell that it had ships that flew and wagons, pulled by magic and lights on every street. It was called the city that never slept. The mighty were brought down low by their own splendor. It's a lesson for us common folk: you reach for the sky and you'll get burnt by the sun.”

The beggar fell silent and began cleaning his fingernail with a stick.

“What happened?” asked Tristan.

“You knows what happened. Every man, woman and child knows the story.”

“Tell me anyway,” said Tristan.

“A battle took place the likes have never been seen before, not an army but the dragon himself. The city was raised to the ground and the hero and Malice both vanished. London changed from the city of lights to the city of the living dead.”

Tristan rose to his feet. “Thanks for the story,” he said. He handed the man another coin and left the alley, his mind lost in thought.

The nauseating odor of month old urine pulled Tristan from his thoughts. He looked up and realized he had reached his destination.

A purple haired woman sat outside the tannery with a roll of animal hide on her lap and a pair of bone needles in her hands. The woman put down the needles and looked up at Tristan as he approached.

“What can I do for you?” she asked in a crisp voice.

Tristan drew out his sword and stepped towards the woman.

Her eyes narrowed.

“I need something from you,” he said. “A belt and a scabbard that’s large enough to fit this blade.”

***

Tristan fastened on his new belt, attached the scabbard to it on his left hip and slid Unity into the scabbard. He stopped by the marketplace and bought a small packed lunch, two apples and a loaf of rye bread.

He adjusted the pack on his back and stepped onto the Northern road and began his journey to Tempest academy.

A crow cawed and Tristan looked up and saw the stormcrow drifting down on the gentle winds. It landed on Tristan’s shoulder, tilted its head and cawed again.

“You hungry little guy,” he said.

The bird nudged him with his beak.

“Ok, ok,” said Tristan.

He dug in his bag and brought out the burnt pork chop.

Tristan took a bite out of the pork chop, chewed and swallowed.

“You want some?”

He broke a piece, put it on his palm and held it out to the bird. The bird ignored the meat. Tristan held the meat to its beak and the bird nipped Tristan’s finger which sent a jolt of electricity through his hand.

“Ah! You little bugger.” Tristan shook his hand. His finger had gone numb. “Ok, ok, I get it you don't like pork but where am I supposed to get magically charred human flesh for you?”

The bird squawked again.

“You need a name,” said Tristan. “Something like Staticus or maybe Zapmeister?”

The bird ignored him. Tristan took that to mean it didn't like the names.

“Something simple then like, Volt?” he said. “No, you don't like that one either, sounds too serious. Maybe Electrofowl, or Sparkletoes?”

He looked into the bird's intelligent eyes.

“Voltaire, he was a famous writer from my old world.”

No, thought Tristan. His old life was over. He didn't need memories from that life clouding his new one.

Tristan walked on all the while calling out names for the bird and waiting for a sign that he had chosen the right one.

“Watts,” he said. “Or Shocktalon.” He laughed. “That one sounds like a comic book villain. Maybe something friendlier like Sparkie or Buzzbeak?”

The stormcrow gave the tiniest of head shakes.

“Buzzbeak?” Tristan said. “You like that?”

The bird cawed softly in Tristan’s ear.

“Buzzbeak it is then.”

***

The more he headed east the more the landscape changed. The mountains giving way to smaller hills and even flatlands. Now much further down in altitude it also grew increasingly warm. The plant life turned lush, becoming more and more reminiscent of the jungles Tristan had only seen in movies. A winding river cut through the valley and Tristan stepped onto the stone bridge that crossed it. He waved a greeting at a man who leant against the side of the bridge. The man nodded a greeting and continued chewing a piece of grass he had sticking out of his mouth.

Tristan didn't think much about the man at first but from the corner of his eye he noticed that the man had stepped onto the bridge behind him. Tristan loosened the sword at his hip.

His three weeks in Umbra had made him paranoid.

As Tristan approached the other side of the bridge a man stepped onto the bridge ahead of him. The man looked like a hunter. He had a blow slung over his shoulder and a hunting knife on his hip. Tristan glanced behind him. The man following him met his gaze and grinned at him.

Tristan rested his hand casually on the serpent head pommel of his sword. He wasn't afraid of the men but he was afraid that he would have to kill them. If he was better with the sword or his magic he could have disarmed or disabled the men but Tristan was still inexperienced. If he released the magic it would kill everyone it touched.

The clopping sound of horse hooves on stone drew Tristan out of his thoughts. He stopped walking as a pair of horses drew a wagon onto the bridge ahead of him. Tristan knew that once the wagon passed the thugs would attack.

Tristan stepped aside to make room for the wagon to pass. The driver tipped his hat in thanks, revealing a short beard and a wooden pipe hanging from his mouth.

“Storm’s coming,” he said.

The driver struck a match and lit his pipe. He puffed on the pipe and his eyes shifted between Tristan and the two thugs.

“You don't want to be out here when the rain starts falling,” he said.

Tristan forced a smile at the driver. He didn't want the man to get involved with what was about to happen.

“You best be on your way then,” said Tristan. “There are rocky roads up ahead.”

The driver nodded, understanding Tristan’s warning.

“Take care, lad,” he said.

He clicked his tongue and nudged the horses forward.

The wagon rattled as it rolled across the bridge. Tristan watched the wagon go. The thugs stepped towards him. Tristan grabbed his sword and leapt over the side of the bridge.

The bridge was higher and the water shallower than Tristan expected. He landed badly, his knees buckled and he fell sideways banging his head against loose stones into the water.

“Son of a bitch,” he groaned. He struggled to his feet and waded out the water.

He heard the thugs shouting above him. Tristan hobbled under the bridge and lent against the stone wall.

Moments later Tristan heard splashing in the water. They could see him in the dark but he could hear the direction they were coming from.

A thug spoke in a sing-song way. “Come out , come out, little one. We won’t hurt you. We just want to talk, that's it.”

An arrow struck against the wall a short distance from Tristan and he ducked reflexivity scattering a bunch of loose stones.

“There he is,” said a thug.

Tristan moved towards the men with his back to the wall. There was no outrunning an archer. His best bet would be getting in close where he could use his sword.

Another arrow hissed through the dark, closer that time.

Tristan ignoring the pain in his foot darted forward as the bowman reloaded. He stepped out of the dark and a thug’s eyes widened as Tristan’s sword slashed wildly catching the surprised looking man across the face.

The man fell to the ground. He clutched his face and groaned in pain.

Tristan stepped over the man and ran at the archer.

The thug lossed an arrow. Tristan ducked and stumbled. He fell and rolled to his feet. The archer notched another arrow but Tristan reached him first. He dived, catching the man in the chest and driving him into the side of the bridge. The man drew a short dagger and lunged at him.

Tristan slashed at the dagger trying to knock it out of the man's hands. He missed the thugs’ dagger and instead cut off two of the man's fingers.

Tristan took in a deep breath and processed what he’d just done.

He slung the man's bow over his shoulder and picked up his dagger and tossed it into the river.

He walked over to the mangled faced man.

“You’re a monster,” said the thug as Tristan approached. “You’ve killed me.”

The thug’s face was sliced from cheek to cheek giving him a broad terrifying grin.

“Look at the bright side,” said Tristan. “At least you get a great nickname out of it.”

The thug bared his teeth.

“The guards will hear about this,” said the thug. “I’ll tell them about the blonde creep in a robe.”

“You’re right Smiley,” said Tristan. “It would be easier if I just killed you both.”

“Have mercy please. It wasn't my idea.”

The man clasped his hands over his head and began to sob.

“This is just a game,” Tristan told himself. “Time to start playing it properly.”

An overwhelming anger came over Tristan. He drew his sword and pressed the tip against the man's throat.

“They would have killed you for a few coins,” a voice whispered in Tristan’s head.

He wanted to lean forward and press the sword tip through the man's through.

“Take off your cloak,” he said.

“Wha, what?” the man asked with a trembling voice.

“You heard me. Give me all your stuff.”

“You’re robbing me?”

“No,” said Tristan. “I'm just doing unto others as they would do unto me.”

A battle waged in Tristan’s mind. A part of him wanted to cut out the thugs’ tongues so they wouldn't report what he’d done.

That might have been the smart choice but that was not the person Tristan wanted to be. He cut a stripe off of his bathrobe, bandaged up the thugs. He took their coin purse, a pair of worn shoes and a hooded cloak. He could hide his hair with the hooded cloak, he was tired of people bowing to him and calling him ‘my Lord’. He knew if he let that continue he would start getting used to the sound of it. Then soon he’d start expecting it and that would end with him demanding it.